Redemption
by sqky0o7
Summary: Hell is something Dean is never going to forget, no matter what color the soul is, but it's the white ones that will haunt him. WARNING: Mean!Dean, torture, cursing, and eventual rape. Consider yourself warned.
1. Chapter 1

Hey all - just a few things before you read...

1) This is my first fanfic in about six years. :P Please keep that in mind!

2) Dean will not be nice in this. If you have problems with non-consensual acts between adults, cursing, torture and rape, please skip this story. I don't want to offend anyone.

3) I don't own Supernatural, obviously. I'm pretty sure Jensen Ackles wouldn't give me the time of day after reading this story!

That having been said, I hope you enjoy!

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**Redemption

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**

It's up to thirty-nine years. The timeline is foggy in Dean's mind; every day in Hell is the same before, played over and over like a broken record. He can't exactly remember when he arrived, or how, but he knows that soon, forty years his eternity will soon be behind him.

It might be the souls that help him keep the days in order. Yes, the souls change. Maybe it's being able to tell the black ones from the red ones that help Dean remember how long he's been in the Pit. Sometimes it's easy to remember the days when a soul is black, scorched by their sins on Earth who beg like the cowards they were when alive. It's easy to remember how much Dean likes slicing into them, hearing their pleas turn to screams under his capable hand.

Dean can usually remember the red souls too. It's rare that a red soul is on his table so it's easy to remember those days as well. The red ones are twisted and ugly from being in Hell so long. They're not demons yet though, give it a few more years. They are like him; they've made their own deals in the Pit. They torture and rape and watch silently as their humanity is cast aside.

Actually, it's the white souls that Dean remembers best. The white souls make the days stand out. Hell is something Dean is never going to forget, no matter what color the soul is, but it's the white ones that will haunt him. He hates them, but at the same time loves them. They're the ones who are fresh off the boat, who are all whimpers and wide-eyes because they are too afraid or too proud to scream.

Dean's soul used to be white. He almost remembers what it felt like… Something pure and clean inside of him that was slowly cut out over the past thirty-nine years. He wonders when his soul will turn red. He wonders when he will no longer hate cutting into the white souls before him – when he can fully embrace and love to torture until every soul turns to ash in is hands. Now he can only wait because part of him still remembers what it means to have that light inside of you. He can remember how it hurt when the blades flayed your skin and your memories from Earth haunted every moment.

Because Dean remembers this, sometimes he feels as if he has been split in two. The part of him that remembers the light is white hot. It cries. It begs the other half of him to have mercy. It hates the other white souls whom he his forced to break. It hates the way they look at him, pleading with their eyes while he scrapes the flesh from their bones because it knows he can't stop. This is the part of Dean that hates himself for not being stronger.

His other half is twisted and black. It's the part of him that loves the white souls. It loves the screams they make. It shudders with pleasure every time their lifeless eyes cry bloody tears and their voices, hoarse with screams, curse him. It's the part of him that compares screams to orgasms.

Dean's soul is grey, but as each day passes, it grows more and more black.

* * *

It's been thirty-nine years when a white soul is pushed into his cell. It's just arrived, still shivering from the hellhounds that brought her down. Physically the soul is female – Dean guesses that she was around twenty-five when the hounds found her. He watches her with his arms crossed as she collapses before him. The white soul doesn't speak or cry. It emanates a light that is so bright, so hot; Dean can hardly stand to look upon her.

The door creaks open and Alistair looks in.

"Problem?" His ragged voice barks. Dean shakes his head. The demon smirks, his face ugly. "See that our little girl here is comfortable." Alistair's voice has that mocking tone that makes Dean's blood boil and it's enough to get him moving towards the girl. The door slams shut.

The soul before him is shaking and silent. Dean kicks her, hard enough to make a bone crack and the soul to tip over. Dean sees that her mouth is moving, and he laughs out loud when he realizes that she is praying. The sound of his laughter makes her look up in a daze.

"You sound alive." Her voice is little more than a whisper. Dean kneels down smoothly, and with a swift movement, entwines his fingers in her hair and pulls. Her mouth opens wordlessly in the pain and Dean holds her face close to his.

"Not even close sweetheart." He almost wishes he had a pair of sunglasses; her soul is so bright. He runs a finger along her jaw line, watching as some of his blackness rubs off on her. That's better for his eyes. He leans forward; close enough to feel her tremble as he breathes in her terrified breathes. He can see her life now, watching it through her eyes. He sees the deal she made five years ago to kill her abusive husband. He can feel how terrified she is of him, how he beat her consistently and killed their unborn child by punching her one time to many. The random thought flitters through Dean's mind that she is someone he would have tried to save, once. But he can't remember what that means and he brushes it off with a smirk.

She's praying again, eyes now closed and voice trembling as he made her remember her previous life. She opens her eyes when he slaps her across the face, a black handprint smudging out some of the white.

"God isn't here," He hits her again, "Shut up." The black part of him is relieved when she stops praying and the white light inside of her is turned down a notch. He really needs to invest in some sunglasses. The white part of him cries.

"What are you going to do to me?" She whispers, horrified as she comes to the realization that somehow he knows what she is afraid of. She's surprised to find that she is crying, only her tears are blood instead of salt water. Dean leans forward and roughly licks the blood off her face.

"Gonna do the best I can, baby." She flinches at the pet name he got from her memories and he laughs. She cries harder, confounded that he knows.

Dean can feel Alistair's eyes on him and he feels compelled to get started officially. He stands swiftly; he pulls her by the hair as he walks to the back wall. Quickly, he fastens her wrist in the rusty manacles and locks them tight. She has her eyes closed as tight as the manacles, blood dripping down her face as her lips move mechanically. A white-hot light flares up suddenly until Dean punches her so hard that her jaw becomes dislocated. She yelps when he shoves the bones back in place.

"Pray again and I'll gag you with barbed wire." His eyes motion towards the table in the center of the room, and she shudders to see that he wouldn't be lying. He has a finger in her face, tutting her like a displeased father to an unruly daughter, and his eyes rejoice as the light fades again. She has closed her eyes, and he leans forward until they are face to face. He wipes the blood away from her cheeks so gently that her eyelids snap open. His touch is so gentle, so sensual that she thinks for a moment that this is a bad dream. The light flares up again and Dean sighs.

"It's not." He says, as if he can hear her thoughts. She's terrified that maybe he really can. "Don't let yourself think it's a dream." His voice is gentle now also, a change coming over the grey being before her. Speckles of white begin to show through the grey.

"It's easier to forget about God and dreams and deal with what you've got." He looks her in the eye and she gasps when a black cloud suddenly covers his pupils.

"Don't let me catch you thinking about that again." He says, his voice rough. He turns his back on her and she allows herself to look around the room. She finds that it is windowless and completely metal. Dim fluorescent lights flicker on and off occasionally and when they are at their brightest she can see that every corner of the room is rusted with dried blood.

She focuses back on the man who still has his back to her. At least, she thinks it's a man. He is tall and she can imagine him to have been handsome once. Maybe on Earth. She doesn't understand why he squints when he looks at her. His skin is pallid, like someone covered in a fine dust of ash. His eyes are black, but she imagines them to be green.

Suddenly his eyes are meeting hers, seeming to take her in as she was examining him. There is a smirk on her face that makes her shudder and she had to fight so that she doesn't pray again.

He is so quick that she barely sees him move and suddenly he as knelt down in front of her, straddling her legs. She stifles a scream when she realizes he has a jagged knife pressed against her skin. He doesn't bear down – only begins to trace it along her flesh in some pattern that she doesn't recognize. She tries not to tremble, thinking that if she does, the blade will slip and cut her. He laughs.

"I'll cut you if I want too. Tremble away." That bastard edge is back in his voice, scaring her until she can't stop shaking. He laughs again.

Something builds inside of her abruptly when he laughs – like a cough in her lungs that she tries to hold back until finally, not realize what she is doing, she spits in his face. Dean is shocked and momentarily blinded by the flash of white light as her bloody saliva hits him. When he can finally see again, his face hardens and he casually wipes away the blood. He stabs the knife into her armpit and she screams.

Dean smiles grimly and he slides the blade down her side, cutting through her flesh and clothing like a finger through melted butter. She feels the jagged edge slice though her bones and organs, the pain so intense that she feels like vomiting. He pulls the blade out when he reaches her hip.

"I wouldn't do that again." His voice is demanding but she can almost hear part of him begging her not too. She nods cautiously, fighting the bile rising in her throat. It's then that she realizes he has cut her shirt off. He's smirking at her and she shrinks into herself, trying to hide her naked torso from his view. She finds this is hard, considering her arms are chained above her head and he is pinning her legs down with his. She whimpers, closing her eyes.

The white part of Dean's soul is such a bitch, the black part decrees. A sniveling, whimpering bitch. It's the black part that runs the blade down the girl's breast, delighting in the fact that each time she flinches the knife nicks her skin. The black part of Dean's soul wants to taste more of her blood and is turned on by running his fingers over her skin, turning the white soul grey.

Ruled by the black part of his soul, which is silencing the white part momentarily, Dean leans his face down to the girl's chest and places his mouth on her nipple. His tongue swirls around the very tip, making part of him very hot. He holds her nipple between his teeth, alternating between biting down and gently grazing.

The soul chained to the all is grim faced and her dead muscles are tense. Blood leaks out of her eyes as she struggles to keep them closed. He teases her with his tongue and the soul is torn. She is so afraid, terrified of this man, horrified that he is doing this to her and even more shocked that somehow, her body is responding to his touch. She almost laughs, thinking how she knows she is truly in Hell now, as if she had any doubts before. Self-loathing makes her body shake; hating that she can't help but enjoy the fact that his tongue feels amazing.

That's when she feels it again, that sensation that she needs to cough, and it's so overwhelming that she can't stop herself from bringing her knee to his groin. It's this flash of rebellion that makes the soul beneath Dean so hot that he burns his tongue and he can barely feel her knee jabbing between his legs. He recoils from her, closing his eyes tight against the light radiate from her. He can't even feel the pain that should be coursing through his lower abdomen.

For the first time in thirty-nine years, Dean's eyes tear up with something other than blood.

Relieved to have him off of her, she pulls her knees up to cover her breasts, wincing at the cut in her side. She watches him, holding his eyes in what she can only guess is excruciating pain. She is confused; thinking her knee to his balls would have a different effect.

When he can finally open his eyes, she gasps to see him crying. However, unlike her, his tears aren't red. Black smoke pours from his eyes, and Dean instantly feels changed. The black part of his soul has retreated somehow. The girl before him can see the white speckles again, and they are bright enough this time that he can see them too. He looks incredulously at his hands, several white spots shining through the grey until he finally looks at her in disbelief. She feels as though she should be afraid, but there is something different about his eyes. The black cloud is gone and she knows why she imagined his eyes to be green.

The stare at each other for several seconds, and when Dean opens his mouth to speak, Alistair opens the door. Dean's mouth closes, his eyes harden and he shoves his hands into his pockets. He turns.

"Finished?" The demon's voice is eerily cheery; it makes both of the cell's occupants shudder. Dean pauses, but shakes his head no.

"She's difficult. I want to try again." The white soul's heart falls at that, and she feels blood trickle from her eyes again. Alistair shrugs.

"Fine. Tomorrow then. Unchain her." Dean turns and walks stiffly to her. He unchains her wrists easily and hauls her to her feet. She wonders where the green in is eyes have gone, until she sees it flash when Dean looks at his feet. She covers her breasts with her arms and backs against the wall. Somehow she feels safer with Green Eyes than the ugly one at the door, but Alistair crosses the room in two steps and roughly pulls her out.

She catches a glance at Dean's face before the metal door is shut. The green in his eyes is bright as his tears turn to blood.

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Chapter two coming soon. Thanks for reading! Any feedback would be appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again! Thanks to those of you who read this.  
Again, I don't own Supernatural.

**Please be warned**, the following chapter is very graphically violent. There is a reason this story is rated Mature.

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He wakes up the next day from a nightmare. It's the same everyday, for all these years. The same nightmare that Dean can never remember, except for the strong feeling that he had failed. The fluorescent lights of his room are bright, and he stares into the light as long as he can, but it's nothing like that soul's light. Her burning light had erased part of the darkness; eased the suffocating black smoke that took over, mentally and physically.

The door opens without warning as the soul from yesterday is thrown into the room. She falls flat, shivering and he almost walks over to her but she picks herself up. He stays where he is, huddled in the corner that he had fallen asleep in. She doesn't fully realize he's there, because when she looks up her eyes are unfocused and he can tell she is confused. Her clothes have mysteriously reappeared and the cut he put in her side the day before is gone. He vaguely remembers feeling the same way the first night he woke up here. Every day his soul would be cut to pieces and every morning he would reappear seemingly unscathed. It was hard to accept in the beginning. Especially for her, obviously, because the blood began to pour from her eyes.

He closed his eyes and listened to her cry. The light that came from her didn't even burn as she started to pray. He let her words wash over him as though he had never heard anything about God before. The only problem, he found, was that the more she spoke about God, the more he felt the light leave his soul. If there was such a thing as God, how could he let his children make deals with the Devil? Why did he have to torture this poor girl? If there was a God, why was this girl even here in the first place? Because she had the man who killed her unborn child killed? Because she had stood up for herself? What the hell kind of God was that?

He suddenly found himself towering over her - his anger bubbling over towards this soul's God. With the tip of his boot, he pushed her shoulder until she was sitting up. He was relieved to see the white was dimming - even with all the God talk. Somewhere inside of him that bothered him, but the black part of his soul was in control. Before he  
could speak, the door opened. Alastair leaned against the door frame.

"What's on the agenda today Dean-o?"

Dean looked from Alastair to the soul before him. The light was going out in her eyes, reminding him of a candle flame flickering. He grinned.

"I'm gonna break this bitch."

It seemed like days before the black part of Dean retreated and he blinked. He felt as if he had been drugged and was just suddenly regaining consciousness. He looked around the room and found that it was dark, as if one of the lights overhead had finally gone out. He realized it was something in his eyes; a black film covering his pupils that was slowly dissipating. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers but did more damage than good because of his blood soaked hands. He blinked several times so he could see, and found his entire forearms covered in sticky blood.

The black in his eyes had finally faded and he looked around the room. The white soul was still there; only the white was smudged out by blood and filth. She lay on the floor, naked and trembling but making no sound. Dean watched her, blinking again until finally he began to remember the past few hours.

The human part of Dean's soul made his body retch violently. He doubled over, dry heaving and his vision became tinted red with blood. The scene that played before him mentally was horribly indescribable, and through his tinted vision, Dean relived it all.

Alistair left the room, and the white soul looked up at Dean fearfully. The tears on her face were beginning to dry so that her cheeks were caked with dried blood. Her eyes pleaded with him, but she didn't speak. He grinned down at her ruefully.

"You ready baby?" She flinched at the word, and bowed her head. Part of him could feel that white-hot sensation building up inside of her, the rebellious part that spit on him and burned him. He laughed when she suddenly scrambled away from him, desperately clawing at the metal walls until her fingernails were bloody and cracked. In her moment of disarray she screamed for help, for God to help her, and the white light flared. Dean was somewhat surprised to find he could withstand the heat.

The girl before him knew there was no escape, but she clung to her faith as loyally as she could. She knew what this demon was planning to do to her; she knew her personal hell better than anyone, except maybe him. Her tears started anew, the blood dripping onto the floor as she beat on the walls. And he just laughed.

His black soul shook with mirth as she turned around to face him, fists held tightly by her sides and her terrified eyes looking to him. She would try to fight, but he knew her weak, white soul would break eventually. He took a step towards her, but stopped and looked around.

"This is hardly fitting, don't you agree?" He tsked at the blood running down her face, reaching out to wipe it away. She flinched and stepped back. His smirk chilled her to the bone.

"I think we need a setting that's a bit more… personal." He suddenly snapped his fingers, and the room around them was instantly changed. She began to shake violently when she realized they now stood in her deceased husband's tool shed. There were so many memories that flashed through her mind when faced with the room, but the memory of miscarrying her child on the concrete floor topped them all. She found the blood on her face was gone, and her clothing had been replaced by a dress she distinctly remembered throwing it out after he had beaten her so badly it was torn and bloodstained.

But it wasn't the memory of her baby that caused her fear. It was her pregnant belly that made her throat constrict. Her lungs refused to take air when she felt a little kick from the inside.

Dean watched her, snickering. He still maintained his form – her dead husband was 'fugly' (he grinned at the word, trying to remember where he heard it), and he wanted to enjoy this. He did adopt the dead man's clothes. Jeans and hiking boots, a crisp white tee shirt, and the rings she hated. Otherwise he was purely himself, someone that he vaguely remembered as handsome when he was alive. She didn't seem to think so, but then again she still hadn't looked up. He was able to place himself in front of her and put his hands on her pregnant stomach before she even registered that he was there. When she did, her muscles stiffened. She look up at him, water leaking from the corners of her eyes and he gently mused that real tears were much more attractive than blood.

"Please," Her voice cracked, and he felt very pleased with himself that she was already begging. "Please don't do this. Please don't hurt my baby." He shushed her, his hands gently caressing her face.

"Oh baby," The nickname was like a shock to her system, "I would never hurt my little boy." He caressed her belly lovingly but she shivered. "You on the other hand… Well I can't help that." She crossed her arms over her stomach protectively, and he put his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that she wished she could break.

"If you would just behave," He kept his voice even, but she could hear the malice underneath it, "I wouldn't have to do this. It's really for your own good though baby – you know this hurts me more than it hurts you." He couldn't help but laugh then, repeating the words her husband used back to her like a parrot. She glared at him through hooded eyes, hating him indefinitely. He even sounded like the bastard, sickly sweet and cruel just like when he was alive. But this man was different – lethally dangerous, a million times more so than her dead husband. Compared to this man, her husband was an angel.

Dean smiled watching her squirm. He ran his hands across her face, almost lovingly, until finally he led her to the table and fastened her wrists together with a zip tie. He left her then, exploring the shed and whistling to himself.

She watched him warily; terrified that whatever this man had in mind it would blow her husband out of the water. She mentally kicked herself for admiring his body. Her husband was nothing spectacular to look at, but whatever this man was, he had a sinful appearance. She fought back the bile rising in her throat as the thought of the two of them making love flittered through her mind. It made her want to cry, that she could even begin to think of him in that way. As much as she hated herself for thinking it, she couldn't deny that the man was handsome but he scared her to death. She knew he was only going to hurt her.

Dean looked over his shoulder at her and smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking. With two strides, he crossed the small space and kissed her on the mouth without warning. The sensation exploded across her lips and she flinched as if she had been struck. It was a surprising feeling, but once it had passed she felt her body melt. The kiss made her warm to the core of her very soul and left a black scorch mark. She trembled and her knees grew weak. She almost wanted… Almost wished he would…

God she hated him, but she prayed he wouldn't stop. A tear escaped her closed eye as self-loathing rose in her chest, her brain screaming for it to end but her body demanding otherwise.

Finally Dean pulled away; he had kissed her so long he felt as if he had been kissing fire. He mused about how the day before he could hardly look at her because of the light inside of her, but that had worn off a little. Today, the white heat of her soul burned his skin whenever he touched her. He looked at the quivering soul in front of him, the darkness in him lustful while the light cried. Unfortunately for the light, the black won out.

He finally turned away again, seeking out something in the room. With her hands bound she covered her stomach protectively, remembering how fond her husband had been of kicking. She allowed herself to smile thinking of the baby inside of her, either not realizing or not remembering the baby as part of the scene Dean had conjured up. She could imagine the baby's tiny thumb in his mouth, sucking contently and she lost herself to the little boy momentarily. It was a torturous moment when Dean's fist connected with her ear, and the heavenly reprieve was broken. He was frowning at her.

"You weren't paying attention." His voice was hard and she could see the anger building inside of him like a black cloud. She whispered an apology, trying desperately to reconnect with the baby inside her. She heard him call her pathetic.

"You can't even apologize correctly. No wonder he beat you." His words hurt, but it scared her more that his hands were travelling down her body. His touch was so light it almost tickled. She began to tremble; his hands on her hips. He leaned down and kissed her again, pressing his lips brutally into hers, ignoring the burn. To her, it felt like an electric shock and she held her mouth still. His hands traveled lower and when he reached between her legs; she used all of her strength to push him away. She surprised even herself to find that he ended up flat on the floor. Dean only grinned and swiped his leg along the ground, knocking her legs out from under her. She fell hard, hitting her head on the workbench. She could feel her hair become moist with blood, but only thought of it for a moment when she realized somehow her arms were pinioned above her head. A cry escaped her; her stomach was unprotected.

Dean hovered over her, using some of what Alistair had taught him to keep her still. She couldn't push him away, and his hands roamed her body once again.

"You're a little bitch, you know that?" He mused laughingly, hands traveling down her belly to her thighs. She tried to kick him but he was holding her legs too.

"I already learned that lesson," He said mockingly, referring to the day before. "You can't fight back even if you really wanted to. I see that weakness inside of you." He smiled cruelly, tickling her inner thigh. "And, best part of this is, you know that you want me." She cringed at that, closing her eyes and Dean knew she really did want him – at least her body did. He could see the white part of her soul flaring when he had said it. He could feel the mental prayer forming in her head and he stopped it by forcefully ripping the material of her dress until the front of her was exposed to him. That got God out of her head. He could tell by the look on her face that she desperately wished she could move her hands or legs and he laughed when her eyes bulged as one of his fingers entered her. Her teeth clenched together and she fought back a scream.

"Obviously you want me," he said feeling the inside of her, "What a whore." He grinned, massaging her while she tried fruitlessly to fight him. He slipped another finger inside her. "Don't even pretend to want to push me away; you're such a slut. I bet that kid isn't even his. Another reason why he beat you – You didn't do the dishes either, huh?" His face was dangerously close to hers now and he kissed her cheekbone, ignoring how it singed his lips.

"Luckily, like you're poor son of a bitch husband, I know how to treat dumb sluts too." He hoisted her off the ground muttering about what a cow she was, and she found herself bent over the workbench, the metal edge digging into her belly. He fastened the zip tie holding her wrists together to the table and ripped the rest of the dress away from her body. Her tears hit the table silently and he didn't even stop her from praying.

The black part of Dean's soul loved the sight before him. Her pale, quivering flesh was like a canvas waiting for him to paint on. If it hadn't been for her skin, he'd be repulsed by her drenched face and the God talk – but the skin was enough to make him want her even if her white-hot core burned him. He stood behind her, pressing his hips into her exposed rear until he could hear her sobbing openly. He leaned up so he could whisper,

"You can quit pretending baby. You can give that up. You're wet as hell and little sluts like you just need to be fucked." She sobbed louder now, crying over and over until all of her pleas boiled down into "nononononono". Dean ignored her as he unzipped his pants and entered her roughly. He gritted his teeth, trying to enjoy the sensation of sex, but it burned. He forced himself so roughly upon her that her sobs died in her throat until finally, from nowhere, she screamed.

Dean, frustrated by the fact that she was setting his skin ablaze, literally, reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair when she screamed, and slammed her head against the table.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." He ground out, enunciating each word by thrusting into her. His fingers gripped her hips tightly, and despite the incredible burning, he could relish the fact that she was silent.

She let her head rest against the table, tears still flowing from her eyes but she no longer spoke. Every sensation throughout her body felt amplified by a million; like a stereo turned up to eleven. Her head throbbed, and he didn't pretend to be gentle. Every thrust felt like a red-hot poker slicing through her body and his fingers were so tight on her hips that she thought she felt the bones crack. It was the table digging into her that worried her most. The edge was so sharp, so painfully hard, that she could feel it split her belly open.

The bloodcurdling scream that ripped from her throat could be heard halfway across Hell.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey everybody! This chapter is super short, but probably my favorite. I hope everyone enjoys it!  
Again, I don't own Supernatural.

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She could hear the baby crying even now. She lay on the metal floor, her body broken and shivered listening to the faint cries of her baby boy. Only, she couldn't cry. There wasn't any more blood in her body. She sobbed silently, breathing through broken lungs and choking on each breath.

If she could, she would have smiled at the sound of Dean vomiting. She hoped he choked. Not that it would do any good, but it made her feel better to think about it. She wished she was strong enough to lift her head, to give him one of the cruel, jeering looks that he had given her, but she only lay there, listening.

He stood shakily, weak from the strain on his stomach and sweating from throwing up. Trickles of blood ran down his face even though he tried to wipe them away. She had not moved, and he was afraid to even look at her.

God, the things he had done. He had pilfered her mind, taken her deepest fear and twisted it until neither of them could breathe with the horror of it. He looked at his hands, her blood drying to orange rust. He remembered the table cutting her stomach and how she begged him to stop, to please not hurt her baby.

"You want me to save him?" He had said, pulling out of her. She looked at him in a panic, pulling on the ties that bound her hands to the table.

"Please, I can't… Can't lose him again…" The blood was pouring like a faucet from her eyes. He shrugged, zipping his pants up. He was somewhat relieved not to touch her anymore. Her skin was like red-hot pins and needles pricking him over and over.

"Whatever you want sweetheart." He snapped his fingers, the tool shed around them dissipating into thin air as it turned back into the cell they were confined to. He laid her on the table, not even bothering to strap her down.

"This might hurt." The black part of him was giggling like a tickled little girl.

Dean vomited again, unable to stop himself. That was the moment he couldn't handle, the moment when he took his jagged knife and carved the woman's unborn child from her womb. She screamed until he stabbed her at the base of her throat, severing her vocal cords. After that she didn't have much to say.

He hadn't expected the child to be alive. He held the baby boy in his hands, listening to its terrible cry. He watched it, the black part of him chuckling gleefully.

It hurt, but the soul on the table stood. She was drenched in blood, the long jagged cuts through her abdomen bleeding profusely until it was just a dull trickle. She walked towards the man holding her child, peeking around his shoulder to see if her baby was okay. He turned to her in time for her to see her baby boy's body turn to ash in his hands. When she collapsed, she didn't move again.

Like the soul on the floor, Dean could still hear the little boy's howling. He fell to his knees, holding his head in his blood stained hands and sobbed. He cried harder than he had in years of torture, possibly harder than when he first arrived. The white part of his soul took over, making his grey skin glow almost silver. She could see him where he knelt on the floor, but she couldn't move. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how a man could cut her baby out of her and then cry about it afterwards.

She then thought he wasn't a man at all. Monster was more like it.

Dean calmed himself eventually, his sobs turning into sniffles and rather girly hiccups, but he didn't care. The baby was crying in his ear and the soul at his feet seemed to be praying. Even through all the blood, he could see a dim white light. His spirits were lifted momentarily, until he realized there was no God in her thoughts. The light burned with hatred. He felt his heart break as he slid on his knees over to her.

She flinched when she felt his hand on her hair. Surprisingly, however, he jerked his hand away as if she had bitten him. She felt one of his tears drop onto her face, the blood caking over hers. When he spoke, his voice was so soft she had to strain to hear him.

"_I'm sorry._" He said, voice hitching with regret. It was then that she realized this was not only her Hell, but his as well. The thought astounded her, but she was truly dumbstruck at his next words.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters; he… He…" Dean's voice died as he struggled to remember the prayer. It was dusty from his memories, but the words felt right with the light in his soul. He thought hard, desperate to recall the Holy words…

"He restores my soul." Her voice croaked the next line of the prayer, her eyes shining as she looked up at him. He broke down at the sound of her voice, the sound of the righteous words echoing in his brain. Through his tears, he helped her to sit up, and though their bodies were at arms length apart, she grabbed his hand tightly, ignoring the pain of the cuts in her body. Her hand burned him, but the fire of her touch no longer hurt. It washed over him, making his light a little stronger. They both whispered,

"And though I walk through the valley, of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for You are with me…"


	4. Chapter 4

Last chapter! Thanks to all of you who've read this fic - I really appreciate all the reviews and support I've received! :)

I wanted to apologize also for any grammar errors or plot mistakes I may have made. In this chapter especially, I think all the guys are a little out of character, but I did my best. Also, this is set between the first two episodes of Season Five (between _Good God Y'all_ and _Free to Be You and Me_).

Again, I don't own Supernatural.

* * *

It had been almost a year, and Dean still couldn't get a full night's sleep. Every night, he dreamed of Hell, of the impending Apocalypse, and every morning he awoke in a cold sweat. Lucky for him, Sam had taken off on his own and he was free to wake up at two in the morning and just drive.

He was doing that now, taking an early morning drive to clear his head. The engine of his beloved car rumbled along the country road and the speakers hummed as John Fogerty sang about a midnight special. Dean wiped a hand over his face, wide-awake and his terror slowly abiding as the voice on the radio calmed him. Every night was the same, for a long while now, every dream as nightmarish as the last.

He whistled shakily along with the music, feeling stupid to let a dream get under his skin so easily. Granted, these weren't ordinary nightmares… But he still felt dumb, especially when he couldn't remember them.

Sometimes he tried to remember, like now, he strained his brain in attempt to recall what scared him so badly. Not to say that he had forgotten Hell, not even close, but the memories had subsided from when he had first been pulled out. Now it was a distant, painful back-story that crept into his thoughts if he didn't pay attention. His dreams, however, mixed those memories with present fears until he woke up biting back screams.

Dean dreamed every single night that he was away from Hell, but it was a year until he remembered her face.

He pressed his foot against the pedal, the needle shooting over ninety as the song ended. Dean felt his shakes leave him, the cool night air blowing violently through the open window until his face felt battered. He smiled and looked to the passenger seat, expecting his brother to be there… His smile faltered when he remembered where his family was. Oh well, it was probably for the better anyway, he told himself time and time again. Sam would just complain that the music was too loud for two in the morning and that the wind was too cold. Dean grinned, languishing in his freedom.

He didn't notice the woman in the road until his car passed through her. The brakes squealed as he realized what he had done, and his heart beat a little harder when he realized he had come across a haunted patch of highway. Despite his heavily beating heart, his grin broadened. This is what he needed – a little late night hunt.

He pulled the car to the shoulder of the highway and shut off the engine. He knew he should probably go back to the motel to research it first, but he could at least scope out what he was up against. He exited the car, grabbing the flashlight and handgun from the passenger seat (a handy storage space, now that it wasn't occupied). Once he was fully equipped, he patted his beloved car on the hood and locked the door.

"This'll just be a second baby." He ignored the strange twinge that he felt in his stomach when he said that. It happened frequently now, ever since he was pulled out of the Pit. He walked to where he had 'hit' the woman.

The road was empty, of course. He turned a complete circle, watching the trees and the road, waiting for something to jump out at him. It never did. He made a mental note of what highway it was and just about how far into the woods he had come, and then started back for his car. The night air revived him, and he was jumpy and excited to have something to do. He could go back to the hotel and call Bobby to see if there was anything he should…

Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His heart raced until he thought he was going to have a heart attack. When the woman in front of him moved, he thought he did. It felt like an ice cold hand was squeezing his stomach and though he tried to look away, his eyes were transfixed.

It was like he had seen her only yesterday, and he probably had in his forgotten nightmares. The memories of his last few days in Hell came back to him as he remembered this spirit and what he had done to it. He felt his lungs constrict as every minute detail of his last days replayed in his mind, and the wave of self-loathing that washed over him was enough to make tears begin to fall from his eyes.

He watched her watching him, barely noticing what she physically looked like. He could tell it was her from the way the light curved around her, from the soft glow of warm white light shot out of her dimly, like pale sunbeams. It was like someone holding a little cup of starlight in the middle of pitch-black darkness.

Finally his throat relaxed and he opened his mouth to speak. He didn't get the chance. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, and when Dean blinked, he found himself in his hotel room. The sunlight was pouring over the bed, hot enough to make him uncomfortable. He rubbed his eyes, staring incredulously around him. It was as if he had never left for a drive at two AM. He wondered how long he had been dreaming, and a tendril of hope rose in his chest.

"Sam?" He ventured quietly, hoping for a second that he and his brother parting ways had been part of the nightmare.

"He's not here Dean." Castiel's voice severed the hope building in Dean's chest and he jumped. The man hadn't even seen the Angel who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Cas." Dean said in way of greeting, though he could feel his face fall when he realized where his dream began and ended. The Angel nodded, a tilt to his head and curious expression on his face.

"Was that a dream?" The Angel asked, and Dean could not help but smirk.

"Yeah, that was a dream. How long you been standing there, creeper?"

"I have been here for four hours, twelve minutes and seven seconds. What's a creeper?" Castiel steady voice was monotone. Dean ignored his question.

"What did you see? Can you see what I dream?" It was something Dean hadn't thought of before, and it made him nervous. Castiel had already been briefed on what Dean had done in Hell, but he hoped that the details had been spared. He gave a relieved sigh when Castiel shook his head no.

"Good." At that, Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He brushed past the Angel, wishing he had a cup of coffee to wake up too. Sam had always been good for that, at least…

"Who was the woman?" Castiel's voice cut through his coffee laden thoughts and Dean felt himself go white.

"I thought you didn't see?" He turned, facing the Angel.

"I cannot see into your dreams. You said a name." Castiel watched intently, curious when Dean sank onto the other bed occupying the room.

"I don't… I don't know her name." The man said, breathing hard to keep calm. Though he considered Castiel his friend, he didn't want to share this part of his life with anyone.

"Is this one of those 'one night stands', you told me about?" Castiel's response would have made him laugh if he wasn't so freaked out. Dean shook his head no.

"It was a soul I met in Hell." He said finally, his voice clipped. Castiel's eyes seemed to glimmer with recognition.

"Yes. I seem to remember this soul now." Castiel said, and Dean felt his blood turn to ice water. "She was there when I pulled you out."

The two of them were silent for a moment, Dean trying to remember exactly what had happened that day.

"What happened to her Cas?" Dean whispered the words, but he knew the Angel could hear him.

"I do not know. My mission was to save you." Castiel watched intently, making Dean uncomfortable. He had the sneaking suspicion that the Angel knew, but before he could speak, Castiel continued.

"She is the reason I found you. Her prayers led me to you." Dean felt sick as he recalled how many times he had forced her to be silent.

He was starting to remember the last day of Hell. It was foggy, clouded in a white smoke, but the more he could recall, the sharper the image became. She had been thrown in with him again; it was the fifty first day they had been together, and the white part of Dean's soul dreaded what it was forced to do. Dean could remember those fifty-one days. They tortured each other, directly and indirectly, each day more creative and terrifying as the last. Some days he'd cut out her child and the baby boy would look remarkably like another baby, one he knew too well. It was only now, outside of Hell, that dean realized the baby to be Sam. Other days they would play husband and wife and act out her old life like a sitcom. He would wear the rings that cut her skin and she would try tears of water. And sometimes her baby was a little boy they called Sam, who looked at Dean with a longing and hatred that Dean couldn't bear to witness.

Sometimes she would burn on the ceiling, a bright blue flame that encased her body and drowned out her screams, until she was a charred pile of bones. And he would be left with a boy that he could hardly bear to look at in fear of the guilt of failing his brother.

And everyday, after their previous realities were twisted into something neither of them could recognize, after they had cried or bled all the blood from their damaged corpses, they would forgive each other by holding hands and gasping out the words they could barely remember.

Dean remembered that on the fifty-first day, he could only remember the word shepherd. He sat and held her bloody hand, crying and silent. He could hear her voice as she prayed even now – a whisper caught in a swollen throat, but the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. It made him want to cry.

After that, the image was too cloudy. He guessed that's how Castiel found him, but all he could remember was her hand being pulled out of his, and then… nothing.

"Dean." Castiel's voice pulled him out.

"What name did I say?" Castiel told him, and Dean looked up at him. The expression on his face made Castiel very curious… It looked as if Dean (perhaps the strongest human he knew) was about to beg.

"Find her. I need to know if… If she's still in Hell." He paused. "Please, Cas… I need to know if I can save her." The last few words were whispered, like an afterthought, but the Angel heard him, nodded, and was gone.

Dean sat on the spare bed and breathed deeply. His hands shook, but he dug his phone out of his blue jeans and almost dialed Sam – an action so ingrained in him that he almost pressed the call button before he realized what he was doing.

"Goddamnit." He snapped his phone shut angrily, but he couldn't help but wish he had just hit the little green button.

He flipped open his phone again and dialed.

"Bobby? Yeah, I need you're help."

He wished his brother would appear.

* * *

After explaining as vaguely as possible what and why he needed help to Bobby, Dean packed his things. He moved swiftly and efficiently just as his father had taught him. The motel room was exceedingly more depressing the more he sat there and he had the overwhelming urge to feel cold wind in his face.

For about the thousandth time that night, Dean wished Sam were there. He knew his brother would only pry, he knew he'd look at him with those puppy dog eyes and drive him crazy, but at this point, Dean didn't care. He missed his brother.

He threw his duffel bag into the back seat hurriedly and slid into the driver's seat. He rested his head against the steering wheel and took another deep breath.

How could he have not thought of her? From the very second he was pulled out of Hell, he had felt ripped in half. He knew she was the only reason there was something left of him to pull out. He could distinctly remember a black part of him that was left, and he actually prayed that she hadn't been left alone with that. He repeated her name over and over as a mantra, disgusted that he could never remember it until Castiel had told him.

His face hardened with resolve, and he drove until Bobby called him the next afternoon.

* * *

Bobby Slinger leaned back in his wheel chair and sighed. He had taken three buses to meet Dean, and that damn boy hadn't even shown up. The older man rubbed his knee, even though he couldn't feel it, pondering over what Dean could possibly want with a dead chick in Montana. The man hadn't said much… And Bobby knew better than to pry since Dean had that stubborn, angry tone to his voice.

Bobby sat up a little straighter as the Impala pulled up next to him. He hadn't noticed the car on the highway while thinking. Dean got out of the car in a rush and Bobby's interest peaked.

"Damn, boy, you look terrible."

Since Dean had been driving for almost three days straight, he knew he looked horrible. It was rare that he had ever driven so much without stopping, but this was important to him. He cracked his knuckles in reply.

"You found her?"

"Yeah, I found her." Bobby looked him over again, but then pulled out the road map he had stuck between his thigh and the side of the chair. He unfolded it, trying to ignore the way Dean hovered over him. He traced the route to the cemetery with is finger and Dean nodded. Bobby didn't even have the chance to ask what or why, because Dean was already motioning for him to come on.

Dean helped Bobby into the car, folded the wheelchair into the backseat and was back behind the wheel in record time. Bobby looked at him, but again, held his tongue.

Bobby was relieved when the car stopped. He could remember now why he didn't enjoy driving with Dean, especially when he was in a mood. Although they had not spoken, Bobby knew this was a visit Dean wanted to make alone, and since the cemetery didn't look too threatening, Bobby leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Dean exited the car, thankful for Bobby's sense of intuition. It made the trip easier to bear if he didn't have someone tailing him.

It took him several minutes, but when the headstone he was looking for came into view, he felt his heart race.

It wasn't anything he was expecting. He had imagined it to be an elaborate piece of rock, a headstone symbolizing the woman's inner strength and faith. He knew that was stupid, but it was all he could think about while driving for three days. He brushed the dead leaves off the top of the stone, looking again at the simple headstone.

_Dianna "Faye" Wilkes_

_1983-2008_

Dean couldn't get over how normal the name was. It didn't seem right – such normalcy for a soul like hers. He couldn't wrap his head around it.

"Can I help you?" A voice broke his reprieve, and he turned to face a girl half his height. She looked up at him in a squint, as if looking to recognize him but then unable to do so. He couldn't place her either.

"I'm just here to visit my friend." He said, motioning towards the headstone. The girl's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I don't know you." She said. He shrugged.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I mean, I knew all of Faye's friends. I've never met you before." Dean shrugged again.

"I guess she never introduced us." The girl went on, bypassing Dean to lay down the flowers she had been holding. She stuck out her hand. "I'm Faye's sister, Allison."

Dean shook her hand numbly. She had a sister... He had never thought about it before. He wished he knew her better.

"I'm Dean." He didn't bother to hide his name.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Allison flicked a leaf Dean had missed off the stone. Dean finally began to notice the bags under Allison's eyes and how lethargic her movements were.

"Are you okay?" He asked. She had sat down on the ground beside the stone, and he sat down to face her. Allison looked at him pointedly, and paused.

"No." He knew from the pause that she had wanted to lie, but didn't for some reason. "It's been hard. Not to unload on a total stranger, but Faye was my best friend." The girl blinked back tears. "I can't seem to… Move on, I guess." Dean nodded, though he didn't know what to say. Allison was looking back at the headstone, and Dean could see her lips moving. He wanted to smile – the sisters prayed the same way.

"That was her favorite." He said, referring to the prayer. Allison nodded.

"It was." Dean could hear her; Faye's voice reverberating inside of his head, softly repeating the words that he would never be able to forget now. They sat there silently for a few moments, Dean wanting to ask every question that popped into his mind but stopping every one. He finally stood and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I should go." Allison nodded and stood too. She stuck out her hand again and Dean shook it.

"It was nice to meet you." The girl said sadly. She turned back to the headstone as he started to walk away. Except Dean couldn't help himself any longer and he turned back to her.

"Allison… Could you tell me? I mean, she never told me where Faye came from. She said her name was Dianna, but everyone called her Faye." Dean lied, dying to know how the nickname came about. Ever since Castiel had said "Dianna Wilkes, but everyone called her Faye" Dean couldn't let it go. Allison smiled a crooked smile, like remembering something sweet.

"It was short for her middle name, Faith. Faye just stuck with her better." Dean nodded and turned away before she could see the tears in his eyes.

* * *

Bobby was almost asleep by the time Dean got into the car. When the door closed softly, the older man opened his eyes.

"Everything okay?" He grumbled, sleepily. Dean sighed heavily, but nodded. He wished Castiel would show up, but he still felt a little better. Bobby surprised him by handing him a slip of paper.

"Castiel popped in after you left. He left this for you." He promptly closed his eyes and attempted to fall back asleep.

Dean felt his heart leap, excitement and dread pumping through his system. He held the note for a moment, hesitating to open it, but he finally did so.

The words were scribbled, as though written by someone who wasn't used to writing.

_Not in Hell. Still looking._

Dean couldn't stop the tears then, but he was silent. He read over Castiel's handwriting until the words blurred. Then he grinned for the first time in four days, and if anyone had been looking, they would have sworn that he was radiating a faint white light. He cranked the engine, and they left Montana.

If Bobby ever read the note, or opened his eyes to see Dean's smile, he never said a word.

* * *

The end.


End file.
